


this path i'm traveling on

by language_escapes



Series: Instead of My Saints 'verse [5]
Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Kid Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-18
Updated: 2011-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-27 12:29:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/295879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/language_escapes/pseuds/language_escapes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If there is one thing Jason Gideon learned from all the UnSubs he’s profiled over the years, it’s how to cover one’s tracks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this path i'm traveling on

**Author's Note:**

> And now, Gideon's story of leaving. This would theoretically take place after the novel-length story that explains WHY Gideon leaves. Basically, a case goes horribly wrong endangering his family. There is your backstory, yay!

Day one, he does the following:

1) Gets all of his money out of the bank, in cash;  
2) Sells his Jeep, again for cash;  
3) Walks across the street to buy the car in someone’s front lawn, and pays in cash;  
4) Cuts up all his credit cards.

If there is one thing Jason Gideon learned from all the UnSubs he’s profiled over the years, it’s how to cover one’s tracks.

*

It was never his plan to leave his family behind. It was never his plan to leave a letter behind, attempting to explain the unexplainable, the unforgivable. His plan was to watch Derek and Spencer graduate, to do the dorky Dad thing and film it and wave excitedly from the audience. His plan was to help Penelope with her homework, to cheer wildly at JJ’s final soccer match of the season, to discuss _Mother Night_ with Emily. His plan was to make pancakes for breakfast every Monday, and to just be there for the kids when they needed him. His plan was to be the Dad to Hotch’s Mom.

He really would have liked to watch Derek and Spencer graduate.

He really would have liked to do a lot of things.

The best laid plans…

He doesn’t finish that thought.

*

On day four, he’s reached Chicago, after driving aimlessly through the South. He parks his car, gets out, and wanders around the city, breathing the chill air into his lungs. His clothes hang around him; he hadn’t packed any clothes, and he’s been driving for days. He’s filthy, and his clothes reek. His coat isn’t warm enough for a Chicago winter. A homeless man offers him his hat, and all he can do is stare, and finally the man moves off, throwing worried glances over his shoulder. He ignores them.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing here. Chicago isn’t home. It hasn’t been for over ten years.

He slides into a store at some point, to warm up, and ends up buying a few shirts, some pants, and plenty of socks and underwear. He pays in cash, and eventually winds up at his car again. He sits in the driver’s seat for fifteen minutes before finally turning on the car and finding a hotel to stay at. He pays for the room in cash, gives a fake name, and locks himself in as soon as the door shuts. He takes the time to take a shower, washing away days of grime and dried sweat, puts on one of the new shirts and pair of pants, and sits on the bed.

Four hours later, he’s still sitting.

*

On day eleven, he’s in Nevada, throwing his money away at the poker tables. He’s not Reid; he can’t keep track of the cards and calculate probabilities in his head. He’s not JJ; he can’t cheat and not get caught. But he’s good enough to lose some money, and then win it all back, plus some extra.

In the glare of the Vegas lights, no one knows his name, or his story. They don’t know that he’s a famous profiler, and they don’t know that he had a family. He leaves the casino that night with a woman, and wakes up alone the next morning. He breathes in the scent of her perfume, checks his wallet (money all still there), puts his clothes back on, and slides out of the hotel. The concierge doesn’t spare him a glance.

He gets back to his hotel and checks out and drives.

*

Day thirty-three, and he’s in New Mexico working odd jobs to make sure his cash flow continues. He’ll only work jobs that pay in cash, because he can’t afford to set up a new bank account. He knows Hotch won’t pry, because Hotch has his pride, but Penelope is capable of prying and probably upset enough to track him down through streams of zeroes and ones.

Mostly, he picks crops. It’s hard work, and he usually gets back to his car at night sore and exhausted, but it’s the sort of work where the people don’t care what your name is, so long as you’re physically capable of meeting the quota at the end of the day. He doesn’t speak the entire time he’s there, except to say, “Thank you,” and “Here,” and “Can you pass me that?” He accepts his envelope of cash silently.

He survives off of gas station food, though he occasionally splurges on food in small diners. On day forty-seven, the waitress pouring his coffee looks down at his open wallet, which he tossed on the table while eating his omelet. He shovels the last bit of his food into his mouth, and the waitress peers down and says, “Oh, is that a picture of your family? You must be very proud.”

He barely makes it out the door before he vomits up everything he just ate.

On day forty-eight, he leaves New Mexico.

*

He’s driving on the interstate on day eighty-nine. He doesn’t know where he’s going this time, no destination fixed in his mind. The radio is off, the air conditioning is on, and it’s quiet in the car. In the backseat there is a small bag of groceries, enough to live off of for two or three more days. There are clothes on the floor, the ones too dirty to wear again until he finds a Laundromat, and there are clothes on the backseat, the ones that he can get away with wearing for two, maybe three more days.

On the seat next to him, there are piles of postcards. He’s picked up a postcard at every city he’s been. He doesn’t want them. He doesn’t know why he grabs them. But inevitably, he buys one, and inevitably, he writes a little message on the back.

 _I’m ok_ , the Alabama postcard says.

 _Still alive_ , the Montana postcard says.

 _I miss you_ , South Dakota says.

He doesn’t mail them. None of them say what he really wants to say. None of them say, _I’m sorry_. None of them say, _I screwed up_. None of them say, _I never was good enough for you; you were the best of me_.

In there own little way, though, they all say, _I love you_.

*

He ends up in Boston on day one hundred and thirty. He doesn’t know why he feels compelled to return to this city, the site of his (second worst) failure. His stomach twists itself into knots and remains that way as he walks the streets, hands shoved deep into his pockets so that he doesn’t wring them together. He keeps his head down; of all the cities he’s been in, Boston is one where someone might recognize him. His face was printed in every major newspaper, looking shell-shocked and sick to his stomach. He imagines he looks the same way now.

He shouldn’t feel this way still. It’s been one hundred and thirty days. It shouldn’t matter anymore.

Later that night, he finds a Catholic church and slips inside. He’s not Catholic, not even Christian, but this is still God’s house. It’s mostly empty, except for a frightened looking teenager sitting in the back and a young man sitting off to the left. He ignores them, and makes his way to the front. He hasn’t prayed, not once, since he left Triangle, since he left his life behind. He can’t pray yet, not yet. But that doesn’t mean he can’t remember.

He goes up to the votive candles and carefully lights six candles, for the six agents he got killed in his recklessness. Then he lights one lone candle, for the one who left them first. Finally, with an unsteady hand, he lights six more candles, for the ones he left behind.

Then he sits in a pew, bows his head, and cries.

*

On day one hundred and sixty-four, he picks up the phone at the hotel he’s staying at and dials the number that burned itself into his brain years ago. His hands are shaking, and so he grips the receiver tighter. He can feel himself hyperventilating, but he can’t stop it, and his chest rises and falls rapidly, the sound of his heart loud in his ears.

“Hello?”

It’s JJ, and his heart crumbles. His mouth goes dry, and it feels like his tongue has swollen. He struggles to swallow.

“Hello?” she says again, and he inhales noisily. It’s the best he can do. His face is wet. He can’t control his free hand enough to wipe the tears away.

There is a long moment of silence, and then JJ whispers, “Dad?”

Carefully, he hangs up the phone.

*

On day two hundred and two, he stops counting.

*

He mails a postcard a few weeks before Christmas.

It says, _I hope your holidays are full of cheer_.

He hopes they understand what he means.

*

On Christmas Day, he steps into a quiet, humble looking synagogue in Colorado. It’s quiet; most people are at home with their families. The thought twists his stomach, but not as much as it used to. The lights are off, and it’s quiet except for the sound of his squeaky shoes on the polished wooden floor. He looks at the front of the synagogue, sees the Torah scrolls sitting there, waiting. He knows what he’s here to do.

There is no rabbi nearby, but he has never felt the need for one. He wasn’t a particularly good Jew. He slides into a pew and sits, his knees groaning in protest. Carefully, he closes his eyes and knows that this is not how it is supposed to be done. Knows that he cannot yet do what needs to be done.

“Forgive us our Father,” he whispers, the words flowing back to him as he needs them. “for we have sinned.”

*

He drives. He never stays in one place for too long. He works odd jobs. He sleeps in his car most of the time, and all of his money is either in his wallet or a shoebox under the passenger’s seat. He looks at people, and he knows their secrets, and he still reads the newspaper every day.

Someday, he will return home. He’ll knock on the door he’s walked through a thousand times, and one of his kids will answer the door. He doesn’t know how they’ll feel about his homecoming, but he will come home.

Someday.


End file.
